Car.
Grandfather.
Answers.
I just need to think. I can do this. I have to do this. Malcolm pushes the hood off his head, and my eyes catch on the drawstring.
That could work.
I grab one end and pull the string free. It’s nearly as long as my outstretched arms. I loop it around two of my fingers and tie a slipknot in the middle.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting us a car.” It never ceased to amaze me how often Mom locked her keys in the car. After her third hour-long wait for a locksmith, and Mom watching carefully each time the car was unlocked, she figured out a few tricks and passed them along to me. Then Mom would randomly—though now I suspect not so randomly—lock her keys in the car and leave it to me to get us back in.
I hadn’t tried this particular method with a hoodie string before, but the principle is the same. I just need to find an older car with a pop-up lock, work the string with the slipknot under the edge of the doorframe, and saw it back and forth until the loop hovers over the extended lock inside. Then I’ll pull both ends of the string, cinching the loop tight, and yank up.
Easy.
Except I still haven’t moved; I can’t believe I’m considering stealing a car.
“Seriously?”
My gaze snaps away from the cars in the parking lot to lock on Malcolm. “I don’t have a better idea and I don’t have time to think of one, so yes.”
Then Malcolm is muttering something to himself and abruptly toes off one of his sneakers.
I see it immediately. A thick stack of folded bills.
It’s close to three thousand dollars. And he had it in his shoe.
My gaze drifts up from the bills to his face. “Seriously?”
“What—you want to complain now?”
No, I don’t. But who walks around on that much money? Like he’sliterallywalking around on it. “What if the bounty hunter had found it?”
“Then that would have sucked for me slightly more than this.” He shoves the cash into his pocket and turns in the direction I indicated, since we’re both eager to leave the motel far, far behind us.
I follow, and it takes an agonizingly long time to shuffle-walk with Malcolm to the little strip mall down the street. I keep throwing sidelong glances at him.
“What?” he asks through gritted teeth, and I can’t tell if it’s more the pain from his side or what I’m forcing him to do that earned me that irritable response.
“What do you have against banks?”
He doesn’t answer.
The pawnshop has long since closed, not that we need it anymore, but we do find a surprisingly kind man at the gas station nearby, who’s much more taken with our boxer story than the motel manager was, and lets me use his phone to hop on Craigslist, find the cheapest running car possible, and give the seller the address to meet us.
The car is…a car, so I don’t care that it looks like something that barely survived a monster truck rally, or that the floor is rusted clear through in places so that I can see the road passing beneath us.
Malcolm, on the other hand, cares slightly more, given that the owner had sensed our desperation even before he saw us in person and claimed multiple other offers to jack up the price. In the end, it takes nearly all of Malcolm’s cash to buy it. We have enough left for gas and the few other necessities that we need for the journey, but not a lot else. I don’t worry too much until a few hours later, when Malcolm takes a deserted side road and eases the car onto the shoulder.
I jerk forward and clutch the dash. “What are you doing? I didn’t tell you to stop.”
Malcolm shifts into park. “My ribs are on fire. I need to take a break.” He eyes the sharpened piece of window ledge I’m still holding. “You are still well within stabbing range, okay?” His eyes flutter closed as he unbuckles his seat belt and winces. “I’m not saying you didn’t do a good job of being threatening back at the motel, but enough. You need my help, and you’ve made sure I need yours.” He hisses in a breath and reclines his seat, then lifts his hoodie. I blanch.
Even against his dark skin, I can see the deep bruising wrapping around his ribs and muscled torso. No wonder he had trouble moving; I’m amazed he’s been able to sit up and drive as long as he has. I stare at him a second longer, then reach into the backseat for the bottle of painkillers. I toss it at him, along with an extra water bottle. He knocks back way too many pills, and it’s strange that after being chased and abandoned and fleeing for my life through the woods, I can still feel sympathetic for someone who literally caused this mess.
